


Bellu, bellu

by sheafrotherdon



Category: The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: M/M, Reunion Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-25
Updated: 2020-07-25
Packaged: 2021-03-06 04:14:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,366
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25517116
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sheafrotherdon/pseuds/sheafrotherdon
Summary: England, 1591.It’s been nearly two months—fifty-four days, thinks Yusuf—since they parted at Calais, and distance has never been easy. There is much about immortality that has made the everyday mundane, but whenever they are parted, Yusuf longs for NIcolò with a fervor that five centuries has not dimmed.
Relationships: Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova
Comments: 50
Kudos: 491





	Bellu, bellu

The inn is plain, noisy, and crowded by early evening, filled with revelers who’ve traveled from all points for the day’s festival. Yusuf’s room is the last available—small, with one crooked window overlooking the market square, offering the barest respite from the thoroughly vulgar songs being sung below. Yusuf laughs, often, at the sheer filth of the rhymes, and wishes Nicolò were with him to suffer the indignities of trying to read poetry while the sixth verse of ‘Watkin’s Ale’ rumbles up from downstairs.

But Nicolò is not with him. It’s been nearly two months—fifty-four days, thinks Yusuf—since they parted at Calais, and distance has never been easy. There is much about immortality that has made the everyday mundane, but whenever they are parted, Yusuf longs for NIcolò with a fervor that five centuries has not dimmed. He sets down his book and wanders to the window, observing the street traffic through dappled glass--hawkers, beggars, three men on horseback--and thinks of the times they’ve been apart before. Cairo and Stuttgart; Smyrna and Rabat. _Everything happens for a reason_ , Nicolò would tell him. _Even this_.

Here at the inn, night and day, there are footsteps on the stairs that Yusuf ignores. Watching a fine rain begin to fall, he fingers the knife at his belt out of habit, not concern, as patrons stumble to their rooms. He considers what he will do as he waits for Nicolò’s return, how he might spin the story of his merchant connections to his advantage. His life has been remarkably mundane for more than a month—no reason to introduce his fist to anyone’s face, much less slit a person’s throat. An occupation would not go amiss. Outside his room a drunk slams into the wall, barely pausing before staggering away, his singing growing fainter. It is a Thursday’s usual ritual, and Yusuf gives it no thought. But he is quick to draw his weapon when someone quietly pauses at his doorway; quicker still to drop the knife completely when Nicolò enters the room. 

“I could have been a robber,” Nicolò offers, clearly amused at Yusuf’s astonishment, closing and locking the door. He drops a leather bag beside Yusuf’s boots.

Yusuf closes his mouth and tries to rally, his heart beating double time in his chest. “Thief of my heart, perhaps” he says thickly, crossing the room to cup Nicolò’s dear face between his hands and kiss him joyfully. “You have been away too long.”

“Too long,” Nicolò agrees between fervent kisses. “I thought of you every night.”

Yusuf’s face heats at the thought and he pulls Nicolò closer. He smells of dirt and sweat, the vagaries of travel, but Yusuf does not care, bites gently at his ear in just the way NIcolò likes and feels him shiver. Yusuf pulls away reluctantly. “Are you safe? Did all go to plan? Tell me everything.”

“Not now” Nicolò says earnestly, and pulls at Yusuf’s belt, deft fingers dispensing with the buckle. “I have other plans for you now.”

Yusuf groans at the want in his voice. “Can we – “

“I need you,” Nicolò says, shaking his head. “I cannot bear these absences. Let me.” Yusuf’s belt clatters to the floor, and Nicolò begins to make swift work of unfastening the buttons of his waistcoat.

They pull off clothes, tug away breeches, hose, linen garments, all the while trading kisses, touches, words of affection. Nicolò retrieves something from his bag – a small bottle of oil – as Yusuf shifts to the bed, pulling Nicolò with him, tugging on his hand until they’re finally pressed together, naked, skin gliding against skin. Yusuf takes Nicolò’s hand that still holds the bottle and kisses his fingers. “I want your touch,” he says fervently.

“ _Mi amu,_ ” Nicolò murmurs, shifting to give Yusuf the space to roll over and lie on his stomach. “Ahhh, _bellu_ ,” he says, voice catching and Yusuf whines as he rocks his hips against the mattress.

“Please,” Yusuf murmurs, “please.” He is not surprised to find himself moved by yearning still, needing NIcolò to be part of him in every way possible to soothe the ache of their days apart.

Nicolò’s touch is gentle, one finger that circles and presses inward as Nicolò scatters kisses across the top of Yusuf’s spine. “I imagined this,” NIcolò says.

Yusuf moans softly, pushing back against Nicolò’s finger, eyes drifting closed. “Was I good?” he asks, teasing.

Nicolò laughs. “So good,” he agrees, crooking his finger so that Yusuf shivers, gasps. “Always so good.” His voice is gentler now.

Yusuf’s hips buck and his voice catches as Nicolò adds a second finger, stretching and opening him while Yusuf fists the coverlet between his fingers. Yusuf’s thoughts run ahead and he tightens around Nicolò’s fingers and hears Nicolo’s choked moan in response. The coverlet is rough against his dick, but not pressure enough, and Yusuf yearns for Nicolò’s weight atop him, Nicolò’s dick inside him, Nicolò’s breath ragged and staccato against his neck. But Nicolò refuses to be rushed despite Yusuf’s entreaties, despite every word in every language Yusuf can offer to coax him to hurry, and stretches him further with one more finger before he acquiesces to more. He presses a kiss to Yusuf’s cheek, his neck, his spine, murmuring reassurance and affection against Yusuf’s skin as he slicks himself with oil. The blunt head of his dick presses gently against Yusuf, and Nicolò pauses there, only pushing further when Yusuf curses him creatively, and Yusuf whimpers with relief when Nicolò slips inside.

It takes no time at all for them to find their rhythm, for their bodies to move fluidly together as they have done so many times before. There is familiarity in the way they roll their hips, and yet the heat between them feels renewed, its own bright thing, unique to this moment. Nicolò untangles Yusuf’s left hand from the coverlet and laces their fingers, murmurs _bellu, bellu_ with such reverence that Yusuf can barely stand how his heart swells in response. It is everything, and too much – the fullness he feels, the brush of Nicolo’s hair against his shoulder, the deep, building ache in his body, in his belly, in his groin. “ _Li Nicolò,_ ” he groans, muscles leaping as Nicolò answers, “ _Sci, sci. Yusuf . . ._ , and then NIcolò’s hips snap forward, once, twice, and he shudders, forehead pressed to the nape of Yusuf’s neck, and comes.

Yusuf is so close, _so close_ , but he stills as much as he can beneath Nicolò, soaking up the inarticulate sounds of Nicolò’s pleasure against some future day of absence. It is everything to him, to be covered by the body of the man he loves, to be warm and naked and the cause of the trembling in Nicolò’s body. And when he cannot bear the stillness for a second longer, Nicolò groans above him, pulls out and kneels back, tugs at Yusuf’s elbow so that he might roll over once more.

Yusuf’s breathing grows ragged as he looks at Nicolò’s face, takes in the great love in his gaze, the mischief in the quirk of his lips. And then Nicolò bends to take Yusuf in his mouth, and Yusuf yelps with pleasure at the surge of feeling inside him, the pressure that builds as Nicolò makes soft, pleased noises around him. Yusuf tangles his hands in Nicolò’s hair, closes his eyes and feels Nicolò’s tongue against him, feels the force of Nicolò’s own longing, his needing, his waiting, his wanting this. It is so great a force, this love, this devotion, and Yusuf feels his body grow as taut as a bow, and calls out for NIcolò as he comes.

He’s not wholly cognizant of Nicolò’s ministrations in the moments that follow, but when Niccolò nudges him to climb between the rough sheets of the bed, Yusuf does so, lets Nicolò press up against his back and rub his nose gently across the crest of his shoulder. Yusuf’s breathing slows; he realizes the room has grown darker, that night has fallen. “Should we light a candle,” he asks.

“No,” Nicolò murmurs. “Lie here with me, instead, so that I may truly know I am home.”

**Author's Note:**

> With gratitude to siria for beta!
> 
> Watkins Ale is a song from 1590 that you can [[read here]](http://www.pbm.com/~lindahl/ballads/songbook/watkins_ale.html). And if you truly want to be ear wormed, [[you can hear it here]](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SznvtWsjRzg&feature=emb_logo).
> 
> [[photo reference for Elizabethan Nicolò's face]](https://www.maremetraggio.com/en/archive-2/2013-3/luca-marinelli-in-prospettiva-3/maremetraggio-and-berlinale-choose-luca-marinelli/).
> 
> [[A map of Europe in 1590]](https://i.redd.it/2gmvn6kn1ot31.jpg).


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